Just One of Those People
by HyperCaz
Summary: Tara Fitzgerald has no place to go. Little does she know what she's getting into when she accepts a job proposition from one Jeff Tracy...TVverse
1. Nowhere to go

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Setting: TV verse

* * *

I'd just finished looping the air with my self designed flying craft when I saw them. Two men dressed to kill, one carrying the oldest weapon in the book – a briefcase. The luggage-totting man had greying hair and a stern look about him. The other wore dorky turquoise rimmed glasses, furtively looking for a place to hide.

Oh yes, very inconspicuous.

I landed my aerodynamic craft (12 metres long, 12 metres wing span) and swung my leg over the side as the cockpit as it popped open. I waved them over,

"Hey, how's it going?"

"Fine thankyou, Miss Fitzgerald," The grey haired one answered measurably.

Alright, they had one on me – they knew my name. I waited for an explanation while I took off my helmet. He spoke again with steel disguised as courteousness in his voice,

"I am Jeff Tracy. This is my associate, Hiram Hackenbacker."

Associate…oldest lie in the book. I'd heard of the Hiram guy and his sky craft invention. I'd also heard of Jeff Tracy…his company made him an A class billionaire. An odd company for either of them to keep. I eyed them warily,

"I'm Tara Fitzgerald, as you doubtless know."

Silence again. Finally, Hiram burst out in a stutter,

"T-That's come f-f-fine c-craft you have there, M-Miss Fitzgerald."

"Yeah, it is," I threw a look back at it proudly, "Designed and flew it myself. I've had nothing else to do with my time…mainly because I don't have the connections to get me anyway in the Air Force. Or NASA," I added wistfully.

It was the billionaire who said something next, almost sounding sympathetic,

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is your craft registered?"

I shifted,

"Short answer – no. I did christen it…" I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, "Well, I have these heroes see…oh stuff it. It's not legally registered but I named it Thunderbird 6."

Hiram and Mr Tracy exchanged glances. They obviously thought I was mad.

"I'm not crazy!" I laughed, "I just really admire International Rescue because I once saw a female working for them…and I'd've become a famous feminist if I didn't attempt the Air Force."

Hackbacker was positively socially inept. He managed fearfully,

"S-Surely you m-m-must admire them f-for something e-else."

I narrowed me eyes. So Jeff Tracy and his Hiram buddy were interested in International Rescue, huh? Well, I'd give them my answer anyway. Even if they were my last chance at achieving my dream of flying full time, I'd be honest. I lifted my chin,

"They save people, dammit! Who has the guts these days to do it? And they're not hiding because they've got something to hide; they're hiding so fans like me don't swamp them for autographs. They're that good and appreciated."

I was blabbing again. Embarrassed, I looked away out of the hanger. It seemed Hiram was going to save face for me.

"T-Tara," He managed, looking genuinely interested, "T-Tell us about your c-c-craft."

"Oh!" I jumped at this chance hastily, "2000 mile an hour speed and fitted with state of the art technology in laser communications. Original shell colour was akin to the frames of your glasses," Hiram smiled at this, "But lilac is the best I say," I swung around to Mr Tracy, "Do you mind telling me what you're doing here? Last I checked drop out pilots like me didn't rank high on billionaires' radars."

The billionaire in question inclined his head thoughtfully,

"Do you wish to work for me?"

I blinked like a deer caught in the headlights. Jeff Tracy, billionaire, Top Gun, astronaut and generally well-know guy was offering me a job? Sweet! I patted my frazzled bobbed blonde hair,

"Well, that was unexpected. Did he do the same thing to you, Mr Hackenbacker?"

"W-Why yes," Hiram offered me an encouraging wink.

I could see he and his superior "associate" were fair impressed with me – they'd obviously read my file and liked my own craft. Two men interested in my work!

"What kind of pay?" I asked curiously, "What kind of work?"

Mr Tracy merely smiled,

"See for yourself."

Needless to say, I was pretty much taken in, hook, line and sinker.

* * *

I clicked a button on the console of my craft absently. The silence was deafening as I flew my own baby, my personal Thunderbird, after Mr Tracy's light plane. I was following him to who know where, but to hopefully a steady job. Then I saw it – the sprawling Tracy Island.

I gasped with awe. My job had better be there! Valet parking or roast cooking, I was definitely in.

I touched down on the runway before Mr Tracy, having overtaken him by a double loop. I had ignored the protests squawked at me through the radio. He didn't seem livid when I saw him upon exiting my craft.

"Hi, Mr Tracy!" I smirked at him, "Didn't see you there. I _did_ try to get into Top Gun."

I had to drop the reminder – I was a skilled employee. It might mean better pay, even if it was a cooking job. I'd used the technique before. It had one of the desired effects – bailed me out of trouble.

He remarked coolly,

"I was aware of that Miss Fitzgerald. Do not attempt to sell yourself short – you'd well have been enrolled if not for your weak connections."

I saw the Hiram guy going over my baby, but forced my attention away. Let the geek have his fun, I decided. He sure looked like he needed it. I shook my hear out as I removed my helmet,

"So what now?"

"Come to my office," Mr Tracy invited, "You've got some papers to sign."

I persuaded myself to read the whole contract before even picking up a pen. It said I was basically flying their craft as well as assisting the main mechanic (Hiram guy, I wagered) in technical design. There was a secrecy agreement, which concerned me somewhat. What did Mr Tracy have to hide?

The thing that really bothered me was that some print mentioned that should I perish, an apt compensation would be paid to an agreed party.

"Compensation?" I squeaked.

"There are risks involved," The billionaire replied evasively.

I snorted,

"No one'll miss me. Build a rocket with it instead. So five years and no real explanation as to what I'm doing that would warrant a secrecy agreement."

Mr Tracy looked me straight in the eye,

"It is a matter of the greatest security. Where else can you go, Miss Fitzgerald?"

"You've got a point," I admitted and signed.

He cracked a tiny smile and reached his hand across the table to shake mine,

"Welcome to International Rescue."

I suffered a delayed reaction. I started having an attack of hyperventilation, not pleased with the amusement Mr Tracy was getting out of it. I had to make sure –

"So we're talking about _the_ International Rescue?"

He nodded. I leapt out of my chair and whooped as loud as I could. My dream had come true! International Rescue – my heroes!

"Oh, sweet," I sighed happily, collapsing back down into the chair.

And indeed it was.


	2. Meet the boys

Disclaimer: Youch, no. Even Scott's greeting isn't mine. Hey, _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ is cool and so is Zaphod so don't knock it. I can't wait for the movie.

I wasn't going to update this till I had enough reviews. But what the heck! Reviews mean nothing.

* * *

Thunderbird 1...check. 

Thunderbird 2...check.

Thunderbird 3...check.

Thunderbird 4...check.

I checked it off in my mind as Hiram showed me around. When he proudly showed off _their_ Thunderbird 6 (an ancient Tiger Moth of all things – where's evolution when you need it?) I realised there was one missing. I stood there, not sure whether to look non-plussed at the budget Tiger Moth or alarmed that one was missing.

"Hiram," I squeaked, "Where's Thunderbird 5?"

Instead of looking alarmed himself, Hiram smiled skittishly and replied surely,

"P-Please call me B-Brains. Hiram Hackenbacker is an a-alias. Thunderbird f-five is o-our satellite which is the b-b-base of c-communications."

Brains, huh? This guy should get psychological help, immediately! Satellite...that sounded promising. I relayed this to...Brains...whose smile became fully blown.

"W-Would you like to m-m-meet the boys?" He wanted to know.

"Boys?" I repeated hopefully.

"Boys," Confirmed Brains smugly.

Sounded promising.

* * *

Brains led me to the living room, where sprawled over the lounge was a dark haired man, lazily watching us enter. He had a charismatic, relaxed appearance. I already knew that face from tabloids and gossip columns.

"Scott Tracy, right?" I narrowed my eyes in interest, "Which is your ship?"

Scott sat up, a more professional air jumping out of nowhere. Once Brains told him who I was, the eldest Tracy son spoke to me easily.

"Tara, hi," He let an arm drop back over the lounge, "You the new recruit, huh?"

I nodded, judging his character carefully. You usually heard bad gossip about the eldest sons of billionaires. I decided to carry on the conversation,

"Pleasure to meet you. Which Thunderbird is yours?"

"Number one," He answered, "Sleekest craft in this joint."

His pride in machinery lifted my judgement of him somewhat. I smiled, relieved that he wasn't trying to draw a date out of me or anything. I was surprised. According to Brains, the whole island was practically guys. I had assumed I was a rarity, a dateable female. Well, maybe I would be treated that way. One person is hardly a basis for assumption.

* * *

Haunting melody slipped from beneath a closed door, beautiful and sad. Crackling revealed it to be an old recording on an old medium. Brains knocked smartly on the door. 

Moments later, framed there was a man with stunning auburn hair and intelligent brown eyes. He looked so unlike Scott and Jeff Tracy, so when he was introduced to me as Virgil Tracy, I gaped at him.

I quickly recovered myself,

"Hi, I'm Tara Fitzgerald. I just signed up for International Rescue."

"You must be good," Commented Virgil quietly, "Or father would never have risked our secrecy."

I squinted at him, then shook my head. I could have sworn I'd heard a description of him before or something. I grinned as memory slammed into me,

"My cousin was raving about one of you IR guys that saved her life. She practically fell in love with someone of your description. D'you want me to set up a date?"

Brains spluttered about secrecy for a few seconds. Virgil smirked at my suggestion and gave a vague goodbye. I could tell he was sane, if solitary, person. The type of guy to go to for advice.

* * *

"Where the hell is my towel!" Demanded a guy with flaming locks, nearly running into me. 

He blinked mischievous eyes, staring at me in amazement. Brains seemed to enjoy the surprised I generated from the guys – I could tell by the crinkles at the corners of his lips.

"Let me guess..." I sighed dramatically, "This is _another_ Tracy? Man, hasn't anyone figured out you guys yet? Bored Tracy family stuck on an island...mostly unemployed officially...hm."

He laughed,

"Gordon Tracy, at your service. Don't crack that one on Dad – he'd probably belt you around the ears."

"Ah," I noted carefully, "Tara Fitzgerald at your service," I flicked my eyes to his comical bathing trunks, "You must be Thunderbird 4's captain. You look like an avid swimmer."

Gordon winked suggestively,

"Wanna join me?"

I whacked him on the shoulder,

"Not ever, flyboy. Go off alone."

"No harm in trying," He told me sincerely.

Brains sighed. I had to fight down inappropriate giggles – he even stuttered sighing! Once Gordon had cleared out, I demanded of Brains in frustration,

"Are they _all_ Tracys?"

"W-Well, mostly," Brains admitted.

"Mostly?"

A blonde beach boy strode into the hall, suave as Scott and even more immature. He grinned upon seeing me.

"Would you – " He began.

"No," I cut across him.

He fiddled with a tie that was dotted with race cars. Brains commented suddenly and sternly, his voice steady,

"Alan, I thought Tin-Tin had your rolling eye."

"Ooh," I winked at the beach boy, "So you're the youngest – Alan Tracy is it?" You gotta love tabloids, "Sounds like there's something Brains here is sure about. Tara Fitzgerald is the name, newest recruit of International Rescue."

Alan looked agitated, but shook my hand. I grinned inwardly as he winced at the strength of my shake. Impressed, he nodded then strode away.

No sooner had he left than a petite but gorgeous Asian woman entered the room. A faint blush painted her perfect cheeks. She looked immensely relieved,

"Mr Tracy has chosen well, it would seem, Tara. The boys are numerous enough. You may call me Tin-Tin. I assist Brains in his work – sometimes I'm let along to missions."

I smiled at her in relief of my own,

"I'm glad I'm not the only girl around here."

Tin-Tin's eyes shone,

"Mrs Tracy would like to meet you. Please let's go to the kitchen. You can also meet my father."

Alan had chosen well in his choice of chase, but I doubted his sincerity. Tin-Tin was a beautiful and proper young woman. I was the complete opposite, but I knew that our light hearted war against the guys would make us fast friends.

Upon going into the kitchen, an old woman nearby poked me in the eye with a sauce covered wooden spoon. I was startled by the fact it was wooden and blinded by the poke.

"Taste this," She commanded briskly, "Tell me what you think, Tara dear."

It was delicious! I made an appreciate noise,

"Scott'll hoe into that."

"Oh?"

"Eldest sons always do!" I laughed, remembering my cousins.

She liked me immediately. Her name was simply Grandma ("Don't let me catch you say Mrs Tracy!") and she was on enough in years to prefer wooden spoons and such to the latest kitchen technology. The other dominant culinary presence was Kyrano, Tin-Tin's quiet but assertive father. He greeted me gently,

"It is good meeting you, Miss Fitzgerald."

"And you," I counted cheerfully. I liked the island better and better. I repeated this sentiment out loud and was rewarded with a chocolate chip cookie. Tin-Tin shot me a grin as Grandma presented it to me.

* * *

"So what do you think of our operations, Miss Fitzgerald?" Jeff Tracy wanted to know, pushing a mug of coffee towards me. 

Sunset streaked orange light into the living room, which now accommodated Virgil and a tinkering piano – that man had an ear for it. I refused the coffee politely, then answered,

"I'm very impressed, Mr Tracy. It's better than I dreamed it would be."

Jeff pointed out the photographs of his sons along the wall. I watched as the photos dissolved into replacement ones, showing the boys wearing IR uniforms. I frowned for a moment,

"Who's that one in the middle? I didn't meet him."

"John mans the satellite every second month," Mr Tracy explained patiently, "Alan shares the duty with him."

The sandy-haired man in the photo looked almost pompous, proud and maybe a bit "tricksy" (to borrow from my favourite old time holobook). I immediately distrusted his appearance. He wasn't good looking but not an eyesore either.

"You can meet him video phonically, if you like," Suggested Jeff.

I shook my head,

"That would be a waste to your communications. He's bound to report in anyway, yeah?"

The billionaire looked impressed at my reasoning. Virgil filled in the silence with Bach, fingers flowing over the piano keys like water. I listened appreciatively then burst into a round of applause at the song's end.

"Bravo, Virgil," I beamed, "My cousin is a fine music lover herself."

"Then tell her my heart belongs to song _and_ art," Virgil's eyes twinkled.

I sighed,

"Oh dear, she is not fond of paintings and such."

Jeff Tracy watched this exchange with a pleased smile. He took a sip of coffee, admitting,

"I had concerns about having an unsocial woman, reportedly trouble, but it seems you have no problems conversing adeptly, Miss Fitzgerald."

I was instantly reminded of Brains and held back a snort. Well, if he was pleased with my behaviour...I waved a dismissive hand at him,

"Call me Tara."

"Then call me Jeff," Mr Tracy returned.


	3. Perceptive Noogie Mistress

Disclaimer: Well, I have a collection of figurines, miniature machines and miniature Tracy Island, an authorised programme guide, the entire DVD set including those really odd movies they made (the dream sequence! Ah!) but I don't own Thunderbirds itself, sadly.

Claudette: Damn, I was hoping no one would notice. I could never understand why Jeff put the pictures in the wrong order. Coz in my authorised programme guide it says John is the middle son. And they're only in that credit order because of the Thunderbirds they fly.

Categorised romance instead of humour? Cha, what a chuckle.

Maybe I should change it.

Maybe I should not.

But then, where would be my plot?

* * *

Days at Tracy Island went slowly – and that was only three of them. My room had a superb view of the beach and the beautiful sunset. Pinks and oranges would streak across the azure sky. I made excused to be in my room at dusk.

On the second day, I was seated comfortably in Brain's domain – the lab overlooking Thunderbird 2 on one side, the runway for the light plane on the other.

"Do you spend long in here?" I asked Brains sweetly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but on the first stutter, Tin-Tin answered for him,

"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

"N-Not that l-long!" Protested Brains, "It's just enthralling."

Studying the bizarre lab, I agreed a little,

"I'll say. I'm hungry and I can smell Kyrano cooking up something. C'mon Brains – get something into that stomach of yours."

* * *

Brains dug into the food like a thirsty man in the desert to an oasis.

He cheerfully slurped down noodles and vegetables like he'd been doing it for years. Tin-Tin delicately approached it, just like her father. Grandma picked at her food while persuading everyone else to fit in "just a bit more".

I attacked it, but not as savagely as Brains. Gordon wandered in and blinked in surprised,

"Brains, Tara, it's not going to run away."

He grabbed a plate of fruit and made us squeeze together to accommodate him. The bench in the kitchen became very crowded. I was next to him so childishly kicked his shin under the table. He retaliated but hit Tin-Tin who kicked back. Laughing, I tutted,

"Your aim is untrue, sonny Jim."

"Sonny Gord!" Insisted the red head cheerfully.

"The sun must shine out of you," I joked.

Gordon poked his tongue out at me. Grandma slapped him on the shoulder. I felt increasingly at home on the island. Virgil then arrived and stole me away as an audience to his music.

* * *

On the third say, Alan took me to the mainland to Parola Sands. He predicted I would love it. On discovering our location, Mr Tracy requested that Scott accompany us. Scott shoved Alan out of the pilot seat of the small plane, only to have me shove him out as well.

"Watch and learn," I told the eldest and youngest sons calmly.

I sent the plane into wild, dizzy loops. Alan was clearly enjoying the show (I'd figured him somewhat a speed freak, considering Parola Sands) and Scott showed some partiality too, though he warned me of the consequences that would result from crashing the Tracy light plane.

"Scotty boy, lighten up," I advised him sweetly, "Virgil has told me stories of TB1 hurtling uncouthly through the air. Or don't you think a gal like me can fly?"

Scott Tracy blinked like a deer caught in headlights,  
"Are you always this perceptive of people?"

I threw a grin over my shoulder,

"Pretty much. Do you need an evaluation on a bimbo money thieving floozy?"

"No, but if I do I shall seek your services."

Alan snorted with laughter, which cracked Scott up. I beamed to myself.

* * *

Alan was a very able racer. Sitting in the seat next to him, I enjoyed the thrill of the speed in the capable hands of an expert.

"I never picked you as an astronaut!" I shouted over at him, "But you probably enjoy the thrust behind TB3!"

Alan swung a full doughnut, then shot off again. He shrugged,

"Think what you will, but I do hate the loneliness of space."

"Does Playboy keep you company or it if thoughts of Tin-Tin that occupy you?"

"Scott's right about you," Alan replied doggedly, "You're very perceptive."

But it seemed he appreciated my company. By the end of the day, after winning a race off him, I was giving him the run down of what Tin-Tin thought of him.

Scott thoughtfully added,

"If only you'd ask her out, Alan."

"Do!" I exclaimed, "She goes goo goo on you."

Alan shifted uncomfortably,

"Maybe next year."

Or maybe next month, I thought stubbornly, then remembered sadly that Alan would be up in space then. I sighed – I hated it when my plans were interrupted.

* * *

Virgil was painting the sea, eyes distant. Alan was reading a sports magazine and Jeff pored over a newspaper intently. Gordon threw an ace of hearts at me.

"Go fish?" I snorted derisively, "You lying cheating b-b-thing! There's no such thing in Rummy."

Gordon threw the whole deck at me. As it rained chance on me, I heard an odd beeping sound. My eyes landed on the middle son's portrait in time to see its eyes flashing. This made me lose my head completely.

"It's possessed!" I shrieked and dove behind the sofa.

Jeff Tracy laughed. AT ME! He explained quickly between bursts of mirth,

"It's John reporting in. Looks like our quiet days are over. Go ahead, John."

"Hey, father," There was an air of importance about the sandy haired stranger, "There's been a call from Auckland in New Zealand. A bomb has just exploded, shattering the foundations of nearby buildings. Estimated one hundred trapped and a few hundred in imminent danger."

Jeff scratched his chin,

"Sounds like we need the mole. John, keep us updated – we're on our way. Before you go, this is Tara Fitzgerald, our new recruit."

John squinted at me impatiently. I immediately disliked his scowl and appearance. I grimaced into a smile,

"Pleasure to meet you, John Tracy."

"I wish that could be reciprocated," He snapped and the photo reappeared in his place.

I growled, but said nothing. Alan laughed and Gordon sought to reassure me,

"Don't worry – he does that to all new people he meets."

Scott was already in the room, waiting for orders. Jeff cleared his throat,

"Scott I want you gone a minute ago."

"FAB."

"Virgil, take pod 5. Gordon, you'll sit this one out. Alan go with Virgil – take Tara with you."

I blinked in surprise. Gordon looked sullen, but winked at me. A thrill of excitement shot up my spine. Virgil disappeared down a slide. Scott held onto two lamps on the wall and was spun around. All very cool. I really wanted a way down to TB2 that was just as cool. Though I found myself stuttering like Brains,

"G-Gordon is more experienced."

Alan grabbed my elbow and started tugging me away. Mr Tracy smiled at me,

"You're just an observer, Tara. The mission doesn't require another experienced member."

Gordon pouted.

* * *

Linen closets hold the weirdest things – try an elevator straight into Thunderbird 2. Virgil was already suited and strapped in. His machine rolled towards the hanger door slowly.

"Put this on," Alan threw a blue uniform at me, the one I'd always dreamed of wearing.

I touched it gingerly, then looked at my sash colour sadly,

"Blood red? I wanted lilac."

"Nah, John has lilac," Alan told me and started changing right there.

I hated this John even more very minute. I hid away in the pod to change, nearly falling over while the whole craft jerked forwards. I ran into the cockpit, drawing the safety harness around me.

In awe, I watched the end of the runway approach. Virgil looked back at me quickly,

"All buckled in?"

I nodded nervously. Alan nudged me and whispered,

"Say FAB. It's our confirmation phrase."

"FAB, Virgil," I parroted, as ordered.

TB2's pilot muttered to himself,

"All systems go."

A blue/silver bullet shot overhead. I could almost imagine Scott staring seriously ahead in there. Jeff's voice squawked through the speakers,

"Thunderbird 2, you're clear to go."

With a roaring blast pushing me forwards, I found my eyeballs glued to the back of my skull and a growing feeling of thrill racing through my spine. I was working for International Rescue!

* * *

I was bored.

With strict instructions to stay on the Thunderbird, I was totally and utterly bored. I moped for a while, occasionally watching as Scott directed things, as Virgil vanished beneath the ground, as Alan helped the authorities cut into the wreckage.

I walked dejectedly into the open pod and back again. Suddenly, I heard a clatter.

"Virgil, Alan?" I asked quietly, unsure.

I turned around to find myself faced with a bald guy with seriously jungle thick eyebrows. He was wearing out-there clothes and just so happened to be pointing a gun at me. Upon seeing me properly, he paled.

"A woman!?" He demanded angrily, "Never it matter – I've got a fun trained right on you. I'm here to steal International Rescue's secrets."

I planted my hands on my hips, cross that Jeff had forbade me to carry a gun,

"Listen, _jackass_, I'm not going to let you ruin my first mission here."

I was seeing red. Someone was going to get hurt, and soon. The bald guy prodded me with his zappy gun,

"I want you to quietly walk outside."

"Are you going to fly this?" I laughed in disbelief, "You'll smash it, you LOONY!"

He looked deeply affronted. I let out a horrendously loud kia, then punched him in the solar plexus, following up with a jump turning kick that drove my foot into his ribs. He coughed but remained standing. Usually I was an okay Taekwondo goer, but this utter defeat surprised me. His eyes started to glow.

"You will go outside, quietly," He intoed.

"No, I will not!" I yelled angrily.

He looked shocked at my outburst. I gave him a concussion in his moment of weakness and dragged him out at gunpoint by his own gun. I spat at Scott,

"Is this a friend of yours?"

"Dear God," Scott's eyes widened, "It's the Hood."

I noogied the bare scalp, grinning in cruel satisfaction as my captive groaned,

"Da Hood? What names do you give the bad guys? Shall I shoot him?"

Scott smiled back weakly,

"Usually he hypnotises people."

"Oh, that was the glowing eye thing then?"

"Yes," Scott stared at me in shock, "How did you resist? This man has tried stealing our secrets many a time."

"Can I kill him?"

"No!" Scott answered sharply.

I threw the Hood to the ground and kicked him for good measure. I glared at Scott,

"He's bound to do it again."

Scott told me evenly,

"Let the police deal with it."

"You...are...STUPID!" I cried in exasperation, then sighed, "But I guess I'm not a murderer and I don't want to start now."

"Good," Scott approved.

* * *

"You...noogied the Hood?" Virgil asked with a smirk while Alan roared with laughter.

I raised my hands in defence,

"He was asking for it. I don't see what's so damn scary about him. Sure, he has glowing contact lenses – that's all there is to it."

"Uh, no," Virgil disagreed, "Anyone who sees them falls under his spell. Brains and Tin-Tin will tell you that."

Alan rested his hands behind his head,

"You're an unusual person, Tara Fitzgerald. Hypnotism resilient."

I smirked,

"Well you know the myth – only the smart can be hypnotised. I'm not smart."

"Oh, you lie," Alan remonstrated, "I've seen your Thunderbird 6. It's brilliant."

"Why thank you, Alan."

"Her head is so swollen it will burst," Virgil commented.

* * *

Jeff Tracy patted me on the back.

"Welcome, truly, to International Rescue," He announced.

The Tracy boys whistled and cheered. I noticed Tin-Tin carefully watching Alan, clapping in time to his applause. Grandma declared cookies all round and persisted in serving until Kyrano won it over with cunning wit.

I felt at home with these people – they were the family I never had, cousins aside.


	4. Beam me up Scotty, this planet sucks

Disclaimer: I own string. I own wood. But not Thunderbirds.

Maybe it's just that the Thunderbirds category is a slow one…maybe I'm just conceited…or maybe people just aren't reading this…

Meh. I like it so you'll have to put up with it existing! LOL. I will not sink to the level of begging for reviews.

* * *

Alan's departure the next week was marked with the news of the Hood's escape from maximum security. I had a row with Scott over the ethics of shooting nasty, bald intruders, a row with Mr Tracy about Scott and finally a row with Gordon about the sun shining from odd places.

Grandma took me into my quiet quarters and had me sit still with camomile tea. She wisely told me that I'd need to calm down.

"John turns red in the face, goodness knows!" Grandma recounted to me, "Do try to avoid him at first. Space tends to make him cranky any day past thirty."

I fully intended to give him the cold shoulder in light of his harsh comment the first time I talked to him. According to Virgil, John had declared me a bimbo with streaks and a Barbie doll, no one important. I truly wanted to bash his face in. Kick his solar plexus. SOMETHING!

And besides, Jeff told me I wasn't allowed to use the telescope without John's permission. John had, apparently, denied my access.

* * *

John Tracy, in real life, looked like there something nasty under his nose. He barely looked at me, but when he did, his eyes darkened. On insistence from Jeff, he stiffly greeted me.

"I heard you're interested in astronomy," John forced out.

I smiled almost in a grimace,

"Yes – I know the galaxy fairly well. It would be nice to pursue my hobby, but alas I cannot use the telescope here because some bastard doesn't like me."

John looked almost winded. Gordon started choking on his cocktail, but was grinning ear to ear. John's rebuttal was snapped,

"Some do not deserve what they ask for. Besides, you'll soon learn to hate gazing at stars when you spend months in space."

Mr Tracy _had_ asked me casually if I might be interested in four months a year, rotating with Alan and John. I didn't have to start right away, though. Jeff wistfully admitted that those two sons had no real Earth life, then confessed that Alan actually kind of did in the form of fast cars and Tin-Tin.

Simply, John had no life down here.

"You're still in love with the stars," I pointed out sweetly, "Why else would there be a Numean telescope on TB5? I helped design that."

John griped,

"So did I."

And turned on his heel. Gordon cheered loudly. He raised his empty glass at me,

"Such a telling off he's never had. Tara, I sense disaster. You couldn't have picked a worse enemy…but then, John's good favour is hard won."

* * *

Grandma told me it was unwise to hold grudges against Stormie (my name for John) but it was my own sweet vengeance. Kyrano somehow knew what was on my mind, advising lightly,

"The dragon breathe, but nothing to ignite."

Gordon thought it was funny. He did impressions of John to me and vice versa. Virgil painted a great likeness of me, then John spoke none too well of it.

"You conceited pig!" I screamed at him, "Virgil is gifted. Don't bag it out just because I'm an ugly evil ogre!"

Jeff Tracy took me aside after this outburst,

"Tara, I cannot have this behaviour continue. Grudges can ruin team trust, therefore a mission. Put aside your differences. John changes – with time."

Yeah, and I'm the Hood, I thought sarcastically but nodded. My word was not to be trusted, so I simply didn't speak it.

* * *

Jeff Tracy tried his hardest.

John and I were constantly sent to missions in Thunderbird 2, along with Virgil and someone else to keep the peace. Gordon lacked sincerity, Tin-Tin was wise but rarely came and Brains – you couldn't understand him half the time. Gradually, I was allowed to do the dirty work along with everyone else. I only truly enjoyed life again when Alan returned from space.

"Heard there were fireworks," He wisecracked.

I was only slightly amused.

* * *

A few days later, I was sprawled out by the pool, lapping up the sunshine, fast fading into colder months. A shadow fell across me and I opened my eyes. Scott Tracy was holding a towel over one arm, though his intent was definitely not swimming. He cleared his throat,

"Can I sit here?"

"Sure," I rolled over, making room, "So you're here to talk to me about being nice to John, right?"

Scott shrugged,

"Believe what you will. Tell me – is there any reason you hold grudges for a long time?"

I hated personal questions, but decided to face my fears effectively. I sighed,

"When I was young, my parents hated me. They held stupid grudges over me, so I just used that as my defence mechanism later. When I turned thirteen, my aunt took me in and paid for my upkeep. I haven't seen my whore of a mother or my drunk of a father since."

"Everyone has their baggage," Scott encouraged my talk softly.

I ploughed on, unsuspecting of the trap he was cornering me in,

"They sure do! It drives them to do near unpleasant things."

Scott grinned triumphantly at me,

"I'll let you in on a family issue, Tara. Our mother died when we were all fairly young. Father had to quit NASA and recruit Grandma to raise us. It hit John pretty hard."

I was aghast at being manoeuvred into this situation. I glared at the rippling clouds for a moment, knowing throwing a kick at him was unwise and petty. I grumbled,

"You've made your point – now scat. I know you want to get back to yout Internet dating line."

He smiled in relief,

"Good to know you're still perceptive of people."

* * *

Too soon it was the end of the month – but it seemed my fears were not necessary. Mr Tracy proclaimed the night before the change over,

"Tara, this may sound forward, but would you consider starting a satellite shift tomorrow?"

"Yes, please!" I exclaimed, "I can't wait to get up there."

Alan snorted with laughter (buried in a book that was upside down) and informed me slowly,

"I'll blast you up at midday, sufficiently late enough to aggravate Stormie."

"Stormy will have to deal," I decided.

* * *

My first ride in Thunderbird 3 was much better than Virgil's joy ride, TB2. I let out an appreciative whoop to Alan,

"I can see why you're an astronaut."

"You like?"

"Oh, yeah!"

I'd been trained as an astronaut, but due to my limited bribe funds and weak connections, I didn't make it onto any shuttles. I loved it! The power behind me, the galaxy in front. Alan Tracy was justified in this living. There was Scott acting as co-pilot (I vowed one day that I would be able to take that job), sure, but I knew who really ran the joint.

I just didn't understand John, a nasty astronomer who clearly liked yet hated solitude – and according to Scott, had heaps of baggage. Thank goodness I was only seeing him for a couple of hours.

* * *

There was no love lost between us. John sneered at me,

"If you so much as touch the telescope I'll…"

"What?" I demanded scathingly, "You'll set Hal on me? You'll bark at me? Heel, Lassie."

Alan looked half mortified, half amused. I was really quite relieved that Scott was still aboard TB3 otherwise he'd have me out on my ears. John growled,

"You think you're funny do you? Calling me Lassie and Stormie? You will have to revert to other imaginations than that of Arthur C. Clarke for your insults."

I'd really touched a nerve, I noticed. I was impressed that he knew who wrote about Hal. I decide to try something so I leered back at him,

"Resistance is useless. Don't underestimate the power of the Dark Side."

Sci-fi was worth a bet, I figured. John's lips twitched,

"Beam me up Scotty. Crysalids are just misunderstood."

"What's the Ultimate Answer?"

"42."

There was a terminated air to the way John spoke. He was obviously keen to let the trade off end. I, however, _was_ keen to outdo him in any manner possible – even if it meant twentieth century science fiction.

"Monolith," I said seriously, to test what he really knew.

"IBM," John replied craftily, catching onto my game.

"Chevron, Hammond."

John's face almost shone,

"Stargate, Bra'tac."

Then we both seemed to remember out past grudges – sorry, current. Alan was gaping at us in astonishment,

"What the hell was that?"

"You, Stormie," I jeered at John, "Are a sci-fi geek."

The moment of amiability passed. John glared angrily,

"No more than you, Fitzgerald."

I poked my tongue out at him.

"Very mature of you," John commented dryly, then turned away.

I stared his retreating back out of sight.

* * *

Thunderbird 5 was amusing for what it was. I prodded the prized, but locked up, Numean telescope. John had thoughtfully waved a key at me through the airlock upon departure.

I loved listening to all the different radio frequencies. Some country's president was re-elected, but the funny thing was, he radioed another president, sounding like a love sick puppy. Apparently, high school sweethearts.

Being the communiqué between the victims and victors was the best thing ever. Gordon, Tin-Tin and Virgil kept up a steady stream of emails. Gordon constantly asked me whether I'd deducted a clever way of disposing of annoying middle brothers. I had to politely say I was working on it, while his suggestions gave me rather nasty ideas.

Tin-Tin kept her emails to things trivial and almost boring. But the normality of it kept me from going insane when I looked at the stars. By this email exchange, I was able to discover an upcoming birthday that I would have been otherwise ignorant of.

Virgil happily hinted:

_Christmas is one of my favourite times of the year. It means presents. Guess which is my second favourite?_

I was shocked to get such a blunt clue from him. He didn't seem the type, though I did ask Gordon if there was indeed some candle blowing to be conducted soon. The resulting answer had me spending my spare time surfing the Internet for something musical. Then Gordon was kind enough to inform me that there were three birthdays in the mean time.

AH!!

With three upcoming birthdays within a month of each other, I was hard pressed to think of anything. The first thing I did was send a blistering email to Virgil over matters of putting self before others. I received the meek reply with some vengeance.

I planned to make a call to Scott to make sure John wasn't spreading slander about my sci-fi tendencies (the other boys would probably drive me insane over it; Gordon and Alan making a spoof of it and Virgil trying to engage my interest over his newest artistic piece). However, I remembered my obligation to my blood family.

I instead placed a call on the vidphone to my cousin.

"Hey, Diane!" I began brightly as soon as her face appeared, "I'm having trouble buying birthday presents, particularly a musical and artistic buff."

"Oh, Tara, I just got over my birthday presents," She laughed.

We got talking about our latest achievements and I gave a vague answer about my employment.

"Tracy Enterprises?" Diane shrieked, "You lucky, lucky person! Jeff Tracy is a humanitarian and pays well."

I rested my feet lightly on the controls,

"Think of a present no billionaire would buy his son, okay? It's for a good friend."

Suddenly, I was telling her about Virgil's talent, Alan's thrills, Gordon's humour, Scott's sophistication, Tin-Tin's vaguely feminist views, Kyrano's wisdom, Grandma's cooking, Jeff's authority, a geek's stutter and, finally, about the imbecile named John.

"You have a history of stubbornly refusing to make amends with enemies," Diane sighed, exasperated.

I ended the call, just as an emergency message came over the equipment. It sounded a little suspicious to me, though I answered it,

"International Rescue, go ahead."

I was unimpressed to discover a nuclear plant had imploded, with extreme danger to explode. I grabbed the details and connected to Jeff. I briefly entertained the thought that there might now be a picture of me on some wall somewhere on the island.

Once delivering the details, I hesitated,

"Jeff, if I may add…"

"Yes, Tara?"

"It sounds a bit odd. The plant was only set up last month. It can't be experiencing difficulties due to eroding security barriers."

"That's for the boys to decide once they get out there," Jeff told me sternly, "Accidents happen to new plants all the time."

My gut instinct told me otherwise. Or maybe I was just paranoid, as my nature was sometimes. I spent the next few hours monitoring the exchanges between Scott and Thunderbird 2's motley crew. Gordon made the discovery – the security barriers had been sabotaged. I resisted the temptation to call Jeff up and chant "I told you so".

Suddenly and eerily, Scott stopped transmitting anything.

"Must be a malfunction in mobile control," Noted Virgil at one stage.

I bit my nails to the point of drawing blood from the pads of my fingers. I couldn't stand the tension any longer – I called up Virgil and told him to check out Scott's last known position.

"I'm in the middle of evacuating workers," He snapped at me, the meek artist buried.

Gordon took the opportunity to declare he would check it out, adding,

"You know, if you're wrong I'm going to have to cash in on this."

Relieved, I sank back in my seat. I desperately wanted to be down there, not moping about in space!! I realised just how exasperated John and Alan got sometimes.

I immediately assured myself it wasn't enough punishment for Stormie and too much for Alan.

I listened with anticipation as Gordon located mobile control. He sounded anxious,

"Scott's out cold. I don't understand. There can't be any radiation leaks in this section. I'd have collapsed, too."

I clenched my fists. I contacted Gordon and ordered,

"Check out Thunderbird 1. Take your gun with you and shield your eyes."

"You think it's the Hood," Guessed Gordon and by the sound of his hurried footsteps, he quickly obeyed me.

"Damn right," I griped, "Activate the, um, film blanking thingamajig."

"Let me remind you I'm not an amateur," Gordon snorted, "What do I do if he's there? Shoot him?"

"We don't do killing. Just…knock him out or something."

I mentally cursed Scott for turning me into a pacifist. My advice sounded weak even to my own ears. Gordon kept his communicator on and his ragged breathing came through. His footfalls stopped abruptly and he grumbled something about bald jungle people ruining his day.

"Freeze!" Exclaimed Gordon, "And don't try your glowing eyes on me, pal."

There was the sound of a scuffle. I frantically paced in front of the communications equipment, hoping Gordon wasn't incapacitated. My anxiousness was slightly doused when Gordon managed,

"He got away, but I'm not hurt. I wiped his film."

"I'm feeling faint," I mumbled.

I heard Gordon laugh,

"I'm fine! Continuing on from earlier, why would the sun shine out from my nostrils?"

"Please, not this argument now."

Jeff at least had the grace to admit my gut instincts were spot on – "sometimes", he emphasised. I decided that while being in Thunderbird 5 was cool, it did get a bit agitating sometimes.

* * *

AN: I feel that I don't entirely have a grasp on the characters (it's like the Sims – too many characters in one house and you forget about some of them, therefore leaving out important character development) but I am working on that. I did add that little convo with Scott about baggage.

Now to hunt down that notebook with the all important next chapter…

Oh, and a note about the word exchange between John and Tara. That was for my own amusement. They are sci-fi related things (except Lassie! I had just had to add that).


	5. Fireflash

Disclaimer: I own Tara. That's it. Oh and a paperclip but Tara stole that.

AN: There is no such thing as _Stargate: Olympus_ but you never know with good shows these days. Numerous, not-so-good spin offs. I still like _Atlantis _though.

fenestrae: I am very proud to call myself a Stargate fan.

killhill2003: There's nothing wrong with being a sci-fi geek. Hitchhiker's comes out next week! 42 hehe

mcj: I don't think Tara wants to leave any time soon. She has nowhere else that she wants to go. She gets to do what she loves.

Girl-Detective: I hope you continue to like it!

* * *

I was gazing, as always, at the Numean with longing when I heard,

"Jeff Tracy to Thunderbird 5."

"Go ahead, Jeff," I said absently, though concerned, "Do you have a cold? Your voice sounds odd."

The viedophonic screen snapped open. I remembered it was midnight on Tracy Island and, with dread, looked up at the simmering glare of Stormie. I was beside myself with fury,

"You're wasting Jeff's funds with a call just to make sure I'm not using your damn telescope!"

"Do you really think I'd sink that low?"

"Um, yes actually," I glared at him.

John did not look pleased. He snapped,

"If you must know, _Miss Fitzgerald_, I wanted to commend you on your insight on the recent mission. I also thought it would be a favour to point out a _Stargate: Olympus_ marathon on TV1."

My pause must have been translated as gratitude for he smiled smugly. I clenched my fists,

"You know what _would_ be a favour? If you would just let me use the Numean."

"After your inane performance," John snarled, "Don't dare even think about using the telescope."

He cut the transmission.

* * *

Alan stepped onto the satellite and waited for me to give him a high five before shuffling aside to admit a glowering John. For no reason at all, I found myself shaking. I felt kind of guilty about the call a couple of days ago.

"Um, hi guys," I began nervously, "What've I missed this last month?"

Alan chattily launched into a narrative of Grandma's scoldings and how pretty he remembered Tin-Tin had looked. I slapped him on the shoulder,

"Just ask her out already!"

I noticed John, the Stormie shadow, skulking around the Numean. Satisfied that it was untouched, he drifted towards the view port and gazed out. Alan's words washed over him, but he didn't take any of it in. The brooding look on his face reminded me of the conversation Scott had with me at the beginning of our hating spree.

_Everyone has their baggage…_

"Alan," I sighed, trying to forget that I'd had a brief moment of weakness and sympathy, "You should try a little tenderness. I'll get Virgil to email the lyrics."

* * *

"Have you no repentance?" Demanded John suddenly as we hurtled towards Earth.

I, immersed in the functions of Thunderbird 3 (it was my first official co-pilot stint), had to ask him to repeat the question. I felt my ears burning with shame, but answered,

"I would _like_ to use any of your telescopes, but I'm beneath your attention."

"I informed you of the marathon," He reminded me stoutly, "I have all the interests of those in International Rescue at heart. Nothing is beneath my attention."

I allowed a marginal defeat by a small confession,

"I appreciated it. There – happy now?"

"Yes," He growled, but softly.

A thoughtful expression passed over his face, but then it was gone. His snarl was back in place.

* * *

A hot afternoon saw me lounging over the couch in the living room. Gordon invited me saucily to swim, but I declined. Scott spent ten minutes with me, discussing "Da Hood" and the latest news.

I wailed,

"You've turned me into a pacifist!"

"Do you still want to shoot the Hood?" Scott wanted to know casually.

"Hell, yes."

"Then you're not a pacifist. If you'd have caught him at the nuclear plant, you most probably would have shot him."

I rolled my eyes,

"Aren't I supposed to be the perceptive one?"

"I'm joining Gordon," He said suddenly, "The heat and your head strong personality are stifling."

I sighed audibly. So I wasn't reformed into a pacifist – thank goodness! My next visitor was Brains who entertained me with the improvements, uh, _modifications_ to my craft (I'd rechristened it _Stormie Dodger_, much to John's chagrin).

"Oh, one thing I must have," I told Brains, "Air conditioning. I'm completely cooked whenever I fly it. I did mention this before, yeah?"

Brains looked embarrassed,

"I j-just assumed you h-had air c-c-conditioning."

"Don't sweat it," I advised him, but it was unable to put my advice into practice due to the intense heat of the day.

Grandma popped round to remind me that just because I wasn't being fed proverbs from Kyrano didn't mean I could be nasty to John. She seemed particularly upset that she had been evicted from the kitchen at Kyrano's request. When John, I mean, Stormie came by I glared at him until he was out of sight.

I sighed. I really could have done with a chat with Tin-Tin, but she was out shopping with a woman I was yet to meet – Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward of England. Apparently she was International Rescue's London agent and a very good friend of the Tracy family.

Mr Tracy tried to persuade me to join everyone else by the pool, but I deftly said,

"Someone needs to be here if Alan calls in."

"Family album!" Jeff countered, holding the item in his hand.

Virgil entered the room and seated himself at the piano,

"Leave her be, father. I'm not down at the pool either and, if I recall correctly, you prefer work to swimming."

Mr Tracy gave up at that point. Virgil started playing a serenade.

"So this cousin of yours…" He said over the cascade of notes, "You say she isn't an art lover?"

I smiled,

"I lied before. She adores art as much as music."

"Hm," Was Virgil's comment.

Suddenly, Alan's eyes lit up on the portrait. The wait and boredom was over for another day! Mr Tracy obviously answered it and decided the mission was worth doing. I felt cold dread in my stomach.

_Please let me stay behind_, I silently begged, _Or Stormie._

"Tara, you'll be joining Virgil and Gordon," Jeff ordered as he entered the room, "The new Fireflash craft has encountered trouble. Oh, I'll send John too."

Bastard.

* * *

I hummed for a while, until Stormie kicked me. I allowed myself a small pleasure,

"You don't know any other way of shutting people up, huh?"

"Tara," Virgil warned from the front of the cockpit.

Gordon had a silly grin on his face and I half expected him to whip out popcorn and start munching. John gave me a smothering glare,

"Sometimes a kick might bring them back to reality."

"What reality, Stormie?" I asked sweetly, "That they may be an awful miser?"

I kicked him. Virgil said off-hand to Gordon,

"I thought father sent you to be the peace maker."

"This is way more entertaining," Protested Gordon, but cowered under the glare that Virgil shot him.

I fell silent, not wanting to end up with Jeff biting my head off over some report from the assigned peace maker. John failed to get the hint and he said scathingly,

"You aren't the saint you like to think you are. You're stubborn, self-centred and unfeeling."

I smiled sweetly,

"Gordon, are you getting this?"

"Leave me out of your squabbles."

Virgil made sure to interrupt the conversation by threatening to blackmail us. I'm sure I gaped at him. Of course, he was sweet natured but that didn't mean his temper flared every now and then.

Gordon brought up a new topic of conversation,

"How many Fireflash craft have we had tohelp in the past couple of years?"

"Five, I think," Virgil mused.

"No, six," John objected, "But who's counting?"

I'd heard about the various Fireflash disasters. It was a source of amusement for pilots and engineers back home – those sillyamateurs losing another plane. I asked curiously,

"So what's the problem this time? Mice? Bomb? Da Hood?"

"Brains reckons all three," Gordon answered with a straight face.

Virgil struggled to keep a smirk off his face. He said in an off-hand way,

"Penny once saw a mouse in here."

"There's no way," John muttered to this, "I cleaned this last before that mission."

I snorted,

"You, Stormie, clean? Well no wonder. When am I going to meet this Lady Penelope anyway? Jeff said something about shopping in Milan."

Gordon scrunched his brow in mock concentration then brightened.

"Oh yes," His eyes twinkled, "You're meeting her tomorrow. If you don't give Stormie here too much grief."

Damn Jeff Tracy, I thought darkly.

John didn't deserve any silence on my part. I'd give him hell when Gordon and Virgil weren't looking.

* * *

While Gordon was busy attaching cables to the distressed _Fireflash Forever_ and while Virgil was checking in with Scott, I snuck in a few snide comments to John about mice and cleaning. He was not impressed.

"Can you not let things rest?" He demanded.

I rolled my eyes,

"Of course not. But, Stormie, you're about as friendly as faulty equipment."

I sauntered over to Gordon, who was frowning in concentration. He noticed my arrival, however, and asked sweetly,

"Nervous?"

"Eat sand, sonny Gord. This isn't my first mission or anything."

"No, but it's the first time Father is letting you do something that's actually risky," Gordon reminded me, smiling almost evilly.

"Hey, the time I used the Mole – that was a risky mission."

"All you had to do was burrow a new passage for the underground river."

"I manned that Mole like a pro."

"Oh yes. Right into a sewage line."

I grimaced,

"That was one time. Besides, all we have to do is evacuate the pilots. Fireflash goes boom, they make another one and we save their sorry asses again."

"If you don't hurry," Snapped John, striding over, "Then it will go boom with them on it."

Gordon nodded encouragingly at me,

"Go to it, Tara. Show Stormie what it's all about."

John scowled at him.

* * *

John manned the cabled harnesses attaching TB2 to _Fireflash Forever_. We had a short altercation over who would get the pilots. Fortunately, Scott cut in over the communication system reminding John that I didn't know how to operate the cabled harnesses yet.

I'd barely escorted the pilots onto the top of the plane when I heard an ominous snapping coming from my harness. I looked down. The hook that would connect me to the cables was broken. I hesitated when I got to the top of the plane.

"What's wrong?" I heard John's voice squawk from the communicator attached to me collar.

I imagined the look of disgust on his face when he found out my hook had broken. Wanting to avoid this, I lied,

"Nothing."

The pilots got hook one fine and John zipped them away up to where Gordon, grinning like a maniac, helped them on board. John waved me over to be hooked onto the cables. I made sure I didn't lose my footing.

When I was in range to hear over the howling winds, John reached a hand out,

"Give me your hook."

"I can't," I gritted over the wind, "It snapped."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He demanded, "Because you thought I'd sneer about it? Equipment fails sometimes."

I refused to have a response to that. John reported the broken hook to Gordon who could only utter obscenities. Virgil's voice came through reminding us that we didn't have much time. John quickly said,

"How strong can you hold onto me?"

"What am I, a preschooler?" I griped.

Noticing how close the water actually was, I sighed and thought _to hell with it_. I fastened my hands on his harness and flinched when he slid an arm around my waist. Stormie hit the release and we went flying upwards to Thunderbird 2. I became aware of my hands losing their grip. Sensing this, John tightened his hold on me.

I was angry with myself. Here was the sad, sorry SOB saving my sad, sorry ass and I wasn't even screaming at him about the injustice of it all. I imagined all the horrible ways that John Tracy could die.

That made me smile a little.

When we reached TB2, I was thoroughly winded. Gordon hit the release mechanism and the cables wound back up. He reported to Virgil that we were on board. The craft shuddered into acceleration. John commented dryly,

"I guess I am friendlier than faulty equipment. That's the first time you haven't given me a piece of your mind."

Damn him. I was only winded. I gasped for breath then, when I had some, I snapped,

"You're the damn expert on these missions! Couldn't you see I was fine? I don't need your help, Stormie."

"Remind me that next time," John glowered, "When I have to save you, not to!"

The two Fireflash pilots watched us in apprehension. Fed up with John, I stormed into the cockpit, Gordon at my heels. Seeing my red face, Virgil asked,

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing," Gordon answered, "John saved her life. Tara forgot to say thanks. I kept the peace."

Virgil raised an eyebrow.

"Right…," He said sceptically, then switched on the radio, "Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 1. No problem, just Tara blowing up at John and vice versa."

"VIRGIL!" I shouted indignantly.

Hearing me, Scott spoke conversationally,

"I guess that's a no to shopping Milan to Lady Penelope, Tara?"

"I don't like clothes shopping terribly much anyway," I sighed in defeat.

"Too bad," Scott said, "Father's going to make you go either way."

I slumped back into one of the cockpit chairs, royally fed up. I was more than a little annoyed to discover that John was authoritative and responsible. I supposed I could be wrong sometimes.

But that didn't make up for the fact that he was such a bastard.


End file.
